


decaf is for the weak

by bluecarrot



Series: tumblr tumblr tumblr prompts!!! [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Student Hamilton, DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE, Fluff, Hamburr, M/M, Meet-Cute, No Plot/Plotless, No Sex, No Smut, Swearing, Tags Are Hard, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, not even kissing, tags scare me, that comes later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7479231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Hamilton is the butt of a practical joke and eventually -- with some help from Cute Barista Aaron Burr -- decides that maybe it wasn't so awful after all</p>
            </blockquote>





	decaf is for the weak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrows/gifts).



> written 7/13/16.
> 
> so Arrows asked for an art-student-Ham thing? this isn't really satisfying my MUST ART THE THINGS itch tho so you might want to check out [any sign of spring](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7523227) for a more interesting, longer-winded, rather more serious variation

"Espresso, please. Double-shot." And he hands over a sweaty ten-dollar bill.

Burr makes change. Even for a college student this guy looks trashed. His hands are shaking and he's got dark circles under his eyes and his hair looks like it hasn't been combed out in a week. 

And he's clearly pissed off. 

Burr should leave it alone, but -- "What's wrong?" he says, helplessly.

"My fucking _friends_ are fucking _fucks_ ," the guy says.

Well, _that_ cleared everything up. "Sorry about that," says Burr. He gets out a cup, starts on the drink, waits while the shot glass fills with the black-tar-goop. He takes another glance over. The guy is drumming his fingers on the counter-top -- not in a rude way, just in a _he-cannot-stand-still_ way. Well, Burr has spent enough time sweating and swearing about schoolwork to feel a certain sympathy -- even if his friends aren't _fucking fucks_. (Not that he has _friends_ , really; he has other things to do. He has work to do. He is very busy.)

He adds another shot of caffeine, finishes the drink, and hands it over the counter -- and hesitates again. But his boss isn't here, there's no one else in the whole damn store ...

So he says "What did they do?"

The disheveled guy looks up at that -- he's got his hands on his cell phone, texting furiously. Probably he does everything at top speeds. ( _Everything?_ Burr thinks, eyes dropping down -- he's thin, thin, on the verge of being rangy, like he's still waiting on a growth spurt; skinny arms, narrow waist, wearing jeans that show it off -- and it's then that Burr  _finally_ remembers to raise his eyes. The view is just as distracting but at least it's more appropriate to stare at someone's face than their -- hips.)

"Those _fuckers_ \--" he says.

"Yeah," says Burr. "I got that much."

"They changed out my fucking  _coffee_ ," he spits. "I have regular coffee, at home, right? French press setup. I don't come here -- this is -- not to be rude, but this is kinda _basic_ , you know? I don't drink this shit unless it's an _emergency_." A pause. "No offense."

Burr shrugs. "I only work here, I don't own the place." And he agrees, anyway. Not that _basic_ bothers him, people like what they like, but the coffee is over-roasted and oily. "So they changed out your coffee. What did they replace it with? Mud?"

" _Decaf!_ " He's red in the face now, underneath the middle-of-the-road-golden-melanin thing he's got going on. He takes a sip of the espresso and Burr flinches.

"Careful, that's really --"

"Hot. I know. It's fine. I can deal. Anyway. They changed me to _decaf_. And I didn't notice, I spent a fucking _week_ feeling stupid and slow and dragging, and I messed up on all my  _projects_ \--"

"And still not sleeping, I take it," says Burr. Those circles look to be long standing.

The guy shakes his head. "I don't like to sleep. Wastes time. Not that I was getting anything done this week _anyway_. Sleeping might have been worth it." He takes another drink. He must have a mouth like --

Burr should not be thinking about his mouth.

"Imma kick their asses," the guy mutters. He shifts his bag against his shoulder. "Anyway. I gotta go. Thanks."

Burr's got his head down now; he's scribbling something on a cup-wrapper. "Here. Take this. Don't burn your hand. And I put an extra shot in it for you. To help you out a little with the ass-kicking."

"I -- really? Thanks. That's ... I mean. Thanks."

"No problem. Just don't shout about it, okay? I honestly  _don't_ own this place."

"Got it. Quiet as a mouse. Quiet as a stone. Quiet as the dead."

Burr is pretty sure he will never be able to stop talking until he is actually dead, but he lets it pass. _You're at work, Burr. Stop mooning. You have work to do. Do it._ "Um. So. Have a good day, okay?" He turns away, picks up the slimy-wet dishtowel.

"Sure thing. Um. Um. Um. Hey. What's your name, man?"

And Burr turns back -- he's still holding on to the rag, like it's a clue to deciphering this mad conversation, and he's got a curious sense of being captured: like he's just been caught doing something not-quite-embarrassing, like adjusting his trousers at the bus stop, or singing loudly to a pop song, or -- or checking out a customer. 

He needs to stop this line of thinking. The guy only asked for his name, after all. "Burr." Hesitating. "Aaron Burr. And leave off the _Aaron_ , please. -- You?"

"Alex." He sticks out a hand. "Alex Hamilton."

Burr wipes his hand on his apron and shakes. 

Alex doesn't let go right away but he doesn't hold on too long either. "Thanks."

"Really, don't mention it."

"I won't. Um, Aaron? I mean, um, Burr. Do you -- are you a student here?"

Burr considers a variety of answers to this and settles on a pretty close version of the truth: "Sometimes. I work. So."

"Oh, god, me too. Retail. It blows. I'm studying art."

Art, huh? Well, that explains the intensity. Some of it. If this is Alex  _decaffeinated ..._ "I'm on political science."

"Yeah, that makes sense. Something," he gestures, "something about your eyes. They're kind of ..."

"Political?"

"No. They're gorgeous, actually. I mean, they're very nice. And your cheekbones should be outlawed."

This is definitely embarrassing -- especially since he was thinking something similar. "Hamilton, I know the customer is always right, but if you want to ask me out, this is not the best opportun --

"Ask you out? Oh no." (Does Burr feel a little disappointed? But Alex is going on.) "So, um. Like." He's shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking even more twitchy than he was a few minutes ago, and that shouldn't be _possible_ but there it is. "I don't mean to sound creepy, but -- um -- "

"The not-sounding-creepy ship has sailed," Burr says, but he's smiling, too. "What is it?"

"I'm an artist, okay? I notice people. And you're pretty, Burr. You're, like," and there is that vague gesture again, and now Burr can see that he's trying to describe his emotions in the air, sketch them out with his hands, as though words are a secondary form of communication -- "You have a really pure _form_. If that makes sense. And I'd like to draw you."

"Uhhhhhhmmmmm. Are we talking life drawing, or --"

"Oh, no nudity. Unless, uh, unless you're cool with that?"

"Um."

"No, no, that's cool, that's fine. Anything at all would be -- it would be great." Hamilton hesitates. "Please?"

Burr feels like maybe he should cut this off right now but he still says "Are you _sure_ you're not hitting on me?"

"I'm an _artist_." Haughty. Self-assured.

Because all artists are asexual? Yeah, sure. "Oh dear. And here I thought you were forthright, with all those _fucking fucks I'm goan fucking kick their asses_."

"Does your answer depend on my answer?"

"Absolutely." And Burr is not smiling at all now; he is carefully, perfectly blank. It's his _7-am-rush-no-ma'am-we-are-out-of-soy-milk-no-there-is-none-in-the-back_  face.

Alex makes a face. He pushes back his hair and then tugs at it. "You're beautiful," he says, and Burr can hear the _but_ coming up and he shuts his eyes for an instant because Alex's _No_ is his _No_ too, he's got so much else to do and he doesn't need a stupid _un-reciprocated_ crush on a stupid _art student_ messing up his time -- "You're beautiful, Aaron Burr, and I am _very much_ interested in drawing you for pure art's sake, and -- I -- um -- that is -- Nevermind. Forget it. I don't want you to be uncomfortable." He's very red now. He rubs the back of his neck.

"Honest and forthright," murmurs Burr; he can't look at Alex. "Straightforward to a fault."

"Okay. Yes. I'm hitting on you. Yes. But I can behave.  _Really_. I'll be good. Just give me an hour? Just some sketches?"

"No," says Burr, cruelly, in payback for that _but_ and all that damned hesitation _;_  he enjoys watching the sunlight fall out of Alex's face for a second before he goes on -- "No, I don't think I want you to _behave,_ Alex Hamilton _._ But I'll let you draw me. Fully clothed. If I can buy you a drink."

Hamilton looks totally, totally confused. Bless. "I just now bought coffee -- "

"I'm talking about alcohol, you beautiful neurotic. I'm talking about a date."

Alex goes very, very still. "You think I'm beautiful?"

"Yes," says Burr, flatly (and at least he's not trying to veil behind  _well I'm an artist, so_.)

"You're hitting on me?"

"Alex, I asked you out. It only needs a yes or no."

"Oh, yes. Yes. Definitely yes. Did I forget to say yes?"

"You certainly did."

An electronic annoyance beeps from somewhere. Alex checks his phone and actually _cringes_. (Someone needs to teach him how to hide his emotions, Burr thinks, critically.)

"Shit. I'm late. I gotta go. But I'll see you, Burr. I'll be back."

"Call me," he says. "Or text me, rather. Don't call."

"Yeah. Got it. I will. Tonight. Today. Wait," and he stops at the door, looking absolutely panicked for a second. "Wait, wait -- I don't have your number --"

"I already wrote it. On the paper sleeve," says Burr, and he grins again at that astonished face. "Go, Hamilton. Go kick some fucking asses."

"I'm kinda thinking I owe them one," says Alex -- and then he's gone, and the door shuts, and the place is empty, empty, hollow.

Burr picks up the rag and wipes down the counter with careful slow movements, like he's trying to sketch something out, like he's trying to capture the vibrancy and expression in a pair of beautiful eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> i also babble over on tumblr with surprising regularity  
> @littledeconstruction


End file.
